When my husband entered a dementia facility and I was on my own for the first time in my life, there were so many things I had to adjust to. Twenty four hour silence, unless I talked to myself, my dog barked or I turned on some music or the tv. Sleeping alone, going to the movies alone. And a lot more I deal with in my book, Moving to the Center of the Bed: The Artful Creation of a Life Alone.
Whatever it was that I had always done with my husband I now had to do alone. But eating alone was one of the more daunting of my learning experiences. I worked on this particular issue for a very long time until I was finally comfortable with myself out and about or in my own home, where there was no daily dining companion if you don't count my Yorkie, a willing taste tester.
One day when I was living in Jacksonville Florida, I was on my way to have my car serviced and listening to National Public Radio. A poem by Daniel Halpern came across the air waves, about how to eat alone. It celebrated the cooking of a great meal, sitting down to eat it and drinking a toast to oneself as the best company in the world to share it with. I loved the poem and only years later while I was writing the book did I find a copy of it to share with my readers. But I worked from memory as I tried to live its message.
What is there that is so difficult about eating alone? I'd done it all my married life. Dined over the sink while preparing dinner for my family, or carried a sandwich around the house as I made sure it was clean and neat for my piano students and their parents. So, why was it so hard to do when I was on my own? I still loved and cooked good food for myself. But I couldn't set a place for one at the dining table. Instead I filled my plate, turned on the tv and watched whatever rolled across the screen. Because it blocked out the screaming silence. I couldn't sit down at the table, face empty chairs and think of all the meals I cooked for my family, their lively chatter around the table, my husband telling me about his day, the kids eager to have their say. But even worse than that was going to a restaurant alone. I was so uncomfortable and felt like everyone was staring at me, feeling sorrier for me than I was for myself.
When I found myself alone I decided to engage in a personal make over in order to lose my fears about all kinds of things. I tackled eating alone early on. And it was worth the effort. I didn't do anything magical or complicated. I finally just made myself sit at the table, no music, no tv, and pay attention to everything about the experience of dining alone. And there is a difference between eating and dining. I wanted to dine, to raise the level of ingesting food to the kind of experience I'd had when I'd been abroad with my husband on so many occasions.
I started with one of my favorite meals, cooked by my own hand. Roast chicken and potatoes, a simple green salad and my special apple pie for dessert. I set the table with beautiful plates and a crystal wine glass. I treated the cooking of my dinner as if I were entertaining someone I cared very much about. I'd never really thought about myself as the recipient of my own creative cooking efforts. It was always for my family. But now, I was very much aware that I was the cook and the worthy recipient of such effort and it actually made me feel happy. I was learning in another way to celebrate myself, my tastes, my pleasures at table.
But it was still hard, at first. Mostly what I did was try to be in the moment, listen to the clink of fork on plate, pay attention to the taste of my crispy skinned chicken and perfectly roasted potato, and treating myself to a smooth French Bordeaux. In time I learned that I could enjoy the sensual experience of a fine dinner no less by myself than in the company of another, in fact, more so, without any conversation taking away my focus from the beautiful food I had lovingly prepared for myself.
I admit that I did not dine out alone very often when I lived in Florida, but now that I am in New York City, I do it all the time. Here everyone eats alone at one time or another. New Yorkers are the most independent of city dwellers and their moxie has rubbed off on me, in the best possible way... and sometimes the worst. But as for eating alone, all I have to do now is to think of what kind of food I want to eat, with the diverse ethnic possibilities here...and then go for it. And, one other thing, I read an article once long ago that admonished women alone not to accept a table at the back of a restaurant...to sit up front where they could be seen and see others. That's what I most definitely do. I've struck up some great conversations with people that way and at other times I try not to talk to anyone.
Learning to eat alone gave me more affection and compassion for myself and what I have to do to honor the life I have now. I'm worth the effort it takes to care for myself in tender ways. Nourishing myself and enjoying my own good company are two of them.
See: Moving to the Center of the Bed: The Artful Creation of a Life Alone
